"How do you become a man if you've never seen somebody be a man, if the people in your life have abdicated their responsibilities and left you as a little person?" -- Joseph Jones, president and founder of the Center for Urban Families (top right). From top left, counterclockwise: class members Kenneth Edwards, Dimitri Maye and LaKeeth Blackmon.

Shereen Marisol Meraji/NPR

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Originally published on June 18, 2014 5:32 pm

About two dozen dads — all African-Americans, ranging in age from their early 20s to late 40s — are standing in a circle participating in a call-and-response exercise:

Call: You done broke them chains. Response: From my body and my brain! Call: But you was deaf, dumb and blind. Response: 'Til I took back my mind!

It goes on, the resonant voices repeating strengths and goals in unison. Welcome to the start of the responsible-fatherhood class, a group that meets every Monday and Wednesday at the Center for Urban Families in West Baltimore.

This isn't your typical classroom setting. The tables are arranged to face one another. The teachers, like Edward Pitchford, are called fatherhood specialists. They don't lecture at the front, but sit with their students and engage them in discussions based on the day's curriculum: communicating calmly and effectively with the mother of their children; and nurturing their kids, not just paying child support. Today, they're talking about staying strong and positive during a job search.

"One of the participants who came through the program, he had an opportunity to get a job," Pitchford tells the class. "Making $25 an hour, and they told him he had to cut his locks, and if he cut his locks, this job is secure for him."

Shouts of "You better cut them locks!" and "That's a lot of money, cut your hair!" fill the air. But Pitchford says the participant refused to cut his dreadlocks and didn't get the job. A young man on one side of the class with locks past his shoulders nods his head in approval; another shakes his recently shaved dome and says he cut his hair for a job making a lot less at Burger King to provide for his kids, and he'd do it again.

Some of the guys have been coming to this group for a long time. It serves as a support network, a safe place to share successes and talk through stumbles.

"This is my sanctuary," says 40-year-old LaKeeth Blackmon, "a place where I can be myself and meet good people and not get caught up with what's going on in the streets." Blackmon has six kids — with three different women. He's been in and out of prison and has an upcoming court date because he was caught dealing marijuana a little over a year ago.

"Look at my life: I don't even know if I'm going back to prison, but I'm here being positive," says Blackmon, who is dressed in slacks and a tie for today's meeting. His father was a drug dealer who was murdered 20 years ago, and Blackmon says he wants to be a better father so his kids don't get caught up in the cycle.

Kenneth Edwards is newer to class. The tall, stalky, bespectacled 30-year-old is a father of four: three boys and one girl. He's living with his girlfriend and daughter now. His three boys each have different mothers, and he wants to be more involved in their lives. That's why he's here, he says — to figure out how to do that in the right way.

He calls his father "a holiday dad. [He] comes around, you know, on birthdays, holidays." Edwards was raised by a single mom in the once-notorious Lexington Terrace housing projects. "This crazy environment with all these drug dealers and people using drugs, just chaos. There was absolutely no role models, I would say, besides the television." Edwards says that before coming to the class, he got the bulk of his fatherhood guidance from shows like Full House and Family Matters.

"How do you develop behavior when you don't see it?" asks Joseph Jones, creator of the Baltimore Responsible Fatherhood Project and president of the Center for Urban Families in West Baltimore. "How do you become a man if you've never seen somebody be a man, if the people in your life have abdicated their responsibilities and left you as a little person?"

Jones grew up in Baltimore without a dad, for the most part, and fathered his first son young. He was a drug dealer and addict at the time and says an inpatient rehab program saved his life. He went to college and spent almost a decade working at the Baltimore City Health Department. There, Jones was charged with getting substance-abusing, pregnant women to their doctor's appointments and was often confronted by angry boyfriends.

"[They'd say] 'Who the hell are you with my girl?' And, I said, 'OK, let me stop what I'm doing, give him attention and help him understand that I'm not a threat to him or his girl," Jones says. "And once I got their confidence, they said, 'We need help, man!' "

Jones says he developed this program nearly two decades ago to help those men whom he says social programs have ignored in favor of assisting mothers and children. He says he knows two meetings a week isn't a panacea to the problems facing black fathers in Baltimore's inner city, but it's a positive starting point.

The fatherhood class ends similarly to how it began. But this time the men are in a circle, made tighter by crossing their arms and grabbing their neighbors' hands. The call and response at the start is replaced with a powerful, unified recitation of the Serenity Prayer.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.

From NPR News, this is ALL THINGS CONSIDERED. I'm Melissa Block. In West Baltimore, there's a group of dads who didn't have someone to say happy Father's Day to when they were growing up, and they're bonding over it. It's led them to work extra-hard to strengthen relationships with their own children. Part of that work comes with attending a fatherhood class. The students grew up in poverty and have spent time in and out of the criminal justice system. Shereen Marisol Meraji, from NPR's Code Switch team, recently visited the class.

EDWARD PITCHFORD: You done broke them chains...

UNIDENTIFIED STUDENTS: ...From my body and my brain.

PITCHFORD: But you was deaf, dumb and blind.

UNIDENTIFIED STUDENTS: Till I took back my mind.

SHEREEN MARISOL MERAJI, BYLINE: About two-dozen dads - all African-American, all from inner-city Baltimore - start this fatherhood class with a bonding exercise - call and response, where they voice their strengths and goals in unison.

PITCHFORD: Alright, you can have a seat.

MERAJI: This isn't a typical classroom setting. The tables are arranged to face one another. The teachers, like Edward Pitchford, are called fatherhood specialists. They don't lecture at the front, but sit with their students and engage them in discussions based on the curriculum -communicating calmly and effectively with the mother of your children - nurturing your kids, not just paying child support - today, it's looking for work.

PITCHFORD: One of the participants who came through the program - he had a opportunity to get a job making, like, $25 an hour.

UNIDENTIFIED MAN: Oh God, man.

UNIDENTIFIED MAN 2: Oh, man.

PITCHFORD: And they told him...

(LAUGHTER)

PITCHFORD: ...Listen - listen to me. And they told him he had to cut his locks, and if he cut his locks, this job is secured for him.

MERAJI: And Pitchford goes on to say he refused to cut his dreadlocks and didn't get that job. A young man on one side of the room with locks past his shoulders, nods his head in approval. Another shakes his recently shaved dome and says, he cut his off for a job making a lot less at Burger King to provide for his kids, and he'd do it again.

PITCHFORD: Hold up. Let's read this next one. Let's read the next one - living purposely.

MERAJI: Some of the guys have been coming to this group for years. For them, it's a support network - a safe place to share successes and talk through stumbles. Others are fairly new.

KENNETH EDWARDS: Kenneth Edwards. I have three boys and one girl.

MERAJI: Edwards is 30. He's living with his girlfriend and daughter. His three boys are each from different women, and he wants to be more involved in their lives. That's why he says he's here - to figure out how to do that in the right way. Edwards calls his father...

MERAJI: And was raised by his mom in the once notorious Lexington Terrace housing projects.

EDWARDS: This crazy environment with all these drug dealers and people that's using drugs - it's just chaos. There was absolutely no role models - I mean, besides the television?

MERAJI: And he says the television is what provided most of his fatherhood guidance.

EDWARDS: You know, TV dads - "Full House" and "Family Matters." So I try to show them, you know, I can get down on my knees and play with them and stuff like that, so that was kind of helpful - having that image.

JOSEPH JONES: How do you develop behavior, you know, when you don't see it?

MERAJI: Joseph Jones created the Responsible Fatherhood program, and is the president for the Center for Urban Families in West Baltimore. Jones grew up in Baltimore without his dad around and fathered his first son young. He was a drug dealer and addict at the time, but says an inpatient rehab program saved his life. He went to college, and after, spent almost a decade working at the Baltimore City Health Department. There, Jones was charged with getting substance-abusing pregnant women to their doctor's appointments and was often confronted by angry boyfriends.

JONES: Who the hell are you, with my girl? And I said, OK, let me stop everything I'm doing. Let me give him some attention - help him understand that I'm not a threat to him or his girl. And once I got their confidence, they said, you know, we need help.

MERAJI: Jones says he developed this fatherhood program years ago to help those men, who he says, social programs have overlooked in favor of assisting mothers and children. He says he knows two meetings a week isn't a panacea to the problems facing black fathers in Baltimore's inner city, but it's a positive starting point.